Sinful Sunday: In disgrace

Arethusa in disgrace. Hands on head, nose in the corner. 

I didn’t make her do that often, and when she had to wait for discipline, she knew I thought her offence was serious and the punishment was going to be serious as well.

In this case she’d handed an essay in two days’ late, so it only got marked out of 80%. She’d both disobeyed a direct order AND harmed her own interests, and she knew that those were the two things I said I’d never accept. 

When I took this photo I said, “You know you deserve what’s coming, don’t you? You can speak.”

Arethusa said, “Yes, of course I know that, Master. I don’t know why I can’t get started on essays till it’s too late. Even though I know you’ll punish me.”

“I know, punishment doesn’t fix all of the problems. But I’m afraid it’s part of the answer.”

She nodded to herself. This was true.

“Afterwards,” I said, “We’ll talk about it.”*


  • Actually, afterwards there was care and after-punishment sex, and then after-sex sleep. So the talking part of “afterwards” began quite late. The solution involved Arethusa keeping me advised of each essay topic and hand-in date, with a compulsory slavegirl/Master talk about how she was going to approach her essay a week before hand-in day, and the essay to be sent to me the day before hand-in deadline, so I could proof it for typos, clarity etc. She never did completely avoid university crimes, after that, but at least the serious ones became rare.


Wicked Wednesday: Droit de Seigneur 10

Yvain rode on her Seigneur’s back as he carried her through the tower corridors and stairs. They were both naked. Her arms were round his shoulders, her legs wrapped around his waist so her cunt pressed hot and wet against the small of his back. 

Occasionally they passed servants, male or female, who stepped to the wall when they saw the Seigneur approaching. With her bottom and thighs red from the strap and the Seigneur’s riding crop, and her thighs as widely spread as they could be, she knew she presented an indecent spectacle, and she could feel their eyes following her when they passed. 

Ahead she could hear a rhythmic smack, a sound she recognised as leather meeting flesh. She guessed the leather was in the Seigneur’s servant Karl’s hand, and the skin it was heating was Gisela’s, the wife of the mayor. Yvain was surprised not to hear a sound from Gisela. She had been in full voice an hour earlier, when the Seigneur’s door opened for a moment. She wondered if this was a new whipping or the same one, still going. 

At last the Seigneur reached the room from which the sound came. He opened the door without knocking. A Seigneur does not knock. Karl’s room was simpler than his master’s, and it was simply furnished: a bed, a table and two chairs, and a whipping bench. But none of this furniture was in use. Gisela stood naked, her feet well apart, bending over with her hands on her ankles so her buttocks and thighs were presented for Karl’s attentions.

She was silent because there was a gag in her mouth, and a delicate silver chain hung from the clips that held and compressed her nipples.

Yvain had seen her many times at village functions, a grand and haughty woman. Now she saw Gisela humbled, her long hair flying each time the lash landed and her body jerked. Her body, naked, was fuller than Yvain’s, but firm. She was perhaps ten years older than Yvain, and still very beautiful.

No wonder, Yvain thought, Karl has such a massive erection under that robe. Karl delivered two more strokes, then stopped and bowed at the Seigneur. “I’m sorry, my Seigneur. But I promised her six dozen, and I wanted to finish the fourth set. She has two dozen to go. Would you like to witness them? Or have you brought that slut” – he looked at Yvain – “here to receive discipline?”

The seigneur, still carrying Yvain, said, “No, I’ll attend to her discipline from now. Has Gisela had her fill of cock tonight?”

Karl smiled. “Once she’s had her first spanking and dropped her airs, she’s insatiable. For the cock and the lash, and she’s had plenty of both. The hope of a night like this: that’s the reason she’s been acting up lately.”

“Well, I may vary her diet a little. Ungag her, Karl.”

Karl smiled, and pressed his left hand, holding the strap, between Gisela’s buttocks to stroke her cunt. With his right hand he undid the buckle at the back of her head, and removed the gag.

Gisela looked at the Seigneur. She sank to her knees. “Seigneur? May I serve you?”

The Seigneur reached behind him and smacked Yvain’s bottom. “Down girl,” he said. “On your feet.”

Yvain, standing, looked down at Gisela. She wondered if that would be her one day. Used to discipline, practiced in serving a man and taking pleasure from that service. And from the discipline itself. Gisela met her eyes. One day, perhaps, Yvain thought, she had been in my position. Yvain hoped her Seigneur might keep her, and not pass her to a servant. She would have to learn and serve well to earn that fate.

The Seigneur said, “I want both of your noses close to my cock. Gisela, crawl forward and kneel in from of me. Yvain, you’re to be at our side, so you can watch what Gisela does. Watch closely and learn. Karl will punish you for in attendance.”

Gisela crawled forward on hands and knees, then knelt upright at the Seigneur’s feet. She said, “May I serve your pleasure, my Seigneur?” She kept her mouth open after asking her question.

The seigneur said to Yvain, “Get closer, girl. I want your face close to hers, so you can see exactly what she does.” He looked at Karl, who had taken a seat, watching. “She’s a skilled little fellatrix, isn’t she, Karl?”

Karl said, “Practice makes nearly perfect, Seigneur. And a little encouragement from the strap.” To Gisela he said, “You’re to suck a Seigneur’s cock now, Gisela. Think of it as a promotion.”

The Seigneur said, “I suppose it is. Good.” He placed his hand on the back of Gisela’s head. “You know what to do, Gisela.”

Yvain watched her Seigneur’s cock disappear, slowly, into Gisela’s mouth. Gisela pressed forward, taking him deeper, until her lips pressed against his groin.

Her checks dimpled as she started to suck, moving her head very slightly back and forth, but keeping all of him in her mouth.

Yvain wondered if she’d ever learn to take so much. She was surprised to feel no jealousy, watching another woman pleasure her Seigneur. She was here to learn.

Sinful Sunday: Saucy girl

Sometimes I make her arse hurt. With my hand, usually, because I love that touch, skin to skin, and that impact, her beautiful round arse, her little movement under my hand, and her yelp. I love those things so much.

But it’s only fair that I hurt her a bit. She’s cute. She’s playful. And so sexy it hurts.



Wicked Wednesday: Droit de Seigneur 9

Yvain had asked her Seigneur if he wanted her to pleasure him. With her mouth, as he had just made her come with his. She expected that she would be thrashed many times while she learned this skill. She not only never had a man’s cock in her mouth, in her life so far; she had never even thought of such a thing. 

She lay on her back, thighs fallen apart, her cunt wet, exposed, happy but not sated. She thought about her Seigneur on his back, his hard cock upright, and kneeling over him to take that cock in her mouth. That combination, subservience, the certainty of punishment to help her learn to please him, and the knowledge that even though she was a novice she would please him: those things excited her. Yearned for.

The Seigneur read something of that in her face. He smacked her cunt, firmly but not painfully with his hand. She moaned a little at that contact. Anything and everything felt wonderful.

The Seigneur said, “I think it’s time you had a spanking. Count and thank me for each smack.” Then he brought his hand down, again, on that most sensitive flesh. Yvain gasped, and, though it was the second smack, she called, “One, thank you, my Seigneur.”

He kissed her thigh. “I’m glad you learn fast, little slut.” He raised his hand so she could see he intended to spank her hard. The delicious impact came, and she called, “Two, thank you, my Seigneur.”

He smiled. She knew he was very pleased with her. She watched him take up the crop again, and parted her thighs wider, arching her cunt up for him. The smacks from the crop were not hard, but they came fast.

She had to struggle to keep up with the count, while thanking him. She meant those thanks, she knew. She might have said them even if he hadn’t ordered her to.

She wondered, as the leather and his hand struck her over and over, each time bringing a wave of sensation in which any pain had long since been swamped by pleasure, if this was part of what being fucked would feel like. At last she reached, “Sixty, thank you, my Seigneur,” and he leaned forward and kissed her cunt again.

He looked up at last into her face, his mouth and beard wet with her. “Whose cunt is that?” 

“It is yours, my Seigneur. But even if I had ever owned it, I would give it to you.” 

“Of course you would. If it had ever not been mine.”

Yvain, greatly daring, reached down to caress the hair at the back of his head. “If I had ever not been yours.” The image of her husband, Matteo, who had never touched her, flashed into her mind. She was surprised to find that she felt no guilt, no sense of betrayal. Though this could not last, and she would be returned to him.

“You’ve never pleased a man with that mouth of yours.”

“No, my Seigneur.” 

“Would you like to learn how?”

“With all my heart, my Seigneur.” 

“Good. Not that what you want matters. Now, I’ve taken my robe off. I’ll wear you instead.” He rolled out of bed and stood beside it. “You, girl, get up!” 

Yvain, wondering, obeyed. He looked sideways at her. “Put your hands on my shoulders. Now jump up, and wrap your legs round my waist.”

Yvain was surprised. Her father had given her piggybacks. She hadn’t expected that here. But she jumped as commanded, riding her Seigneur, thighs holding him tight, her cunt pressed at the small of his back, breasts against his shoulders, her arms lovingly round his neck.

“Such a good coat,” he said. “You need lessons in sucking cock, Yvain. We’re going to pay a visit.”

He walked her to the door and opened it. 


Sinful Sunday: I am the God of Hellfire and I bring you …


I’ll take you to burn

I’ll take you to learn

I’ll see you burn … burn … burn … burn!

You fought hard and you saved and earned

Now all of it is going to burn…

Fire! I’ll take you to burn!

Fire! I’ll take you to learn!

Fire! I’ll take you to bed!

Fire! I’ll take you! Fire!

(Falls over, hair on fire, screaming)

Actually I just got carried away at a barbecue, with … never mind. That part’s ‘need to know’, OK?



Wicked Wednesday: Droit de Seigneur 8

Yvain lay on her back on the Seigneur’s bed. Her legs splayed as far as she could open them, to make it clear to the Seigneur that his attention to her cunt was welcome. More than welcome: it was the sweetest sensation she had ever experienced, even when she’d used her own fingers to bring herself off.

She murmured, “Oh, my Seigneur. Wonderment. Wonderful. Wonder. One, One.”

She felt him bite her, very gently, even tenderly. She knew that if she could see his face she would see him smile. Then he resumed tonguing her, lapping and licking, quite rapidly. He seemed tireless.

She pressed her thighs to his ears, to show him fondness. He had beaten her, and he had had her beaten, and now, somehow, she was half in love.

In love with what he was doing, and possibly even with him. She pressed her thighs tighter, and felt the welts on her inner thighs, from his riding crop.

She could feel the pain in those stripes renew, and that felt good too. She felt pressure on her little bud. It must be his thumb, she thought. I hope he doesn’t … And ten it was done. She felt herself penetrated for the very first time. It was uncomfortable in that first second, but it was already becoming more than comfortable: comforting. She felt herself tense, her stomach muscles clench, and she knew she was likely to come very soon. 

A little later something entered her, just below his busily lapping tongue. His knuckle was in her and – 

Yvain screamed. 

She writhed when the wave of pleasure overtook her. She pressed her thighs on his cheeks, hard, savouring her painful stripes. The pain he had given her. Then, suddenly afraid of hurting him – not of being punished, but of hurting him, her … lover? – she let her thighs fall open and apart.

“Oh, my Seigneur.” She reached a hand down and stroked his hair, the back of his head.

At last he looked up, wolfishly triumphant, and their eyes met. He said, surprised, “Do you always come so quickly?”

“No, my Seigneur.”

“Do you think it was your whippings, first?”

“They aroused me, certainly. But, with your permission, my Seigneur – ”

He nodded. “Of course. You may speak your mind. I will tell you when you begin to bore me.”

Yvain smiled. She was sure that was true, but it was also a joke. “I think I came so quickly because it was you.”

His smile widened. “Then if the opinion of a peasant slut mattered, I would, of course, be flattered.”

Yvain decided the smile cancelled the sting in those words. “My Seigneur?”

“Yes, peasant slut?”

Yvain took a deep breath. She knew she might well be whipped for this. “I would like to address you as something fonder than ‘my Seigneur’. Like, ‘my jo’, or ‘my lordly lamb’? ‘My darling’? May I, please, my Seigneur?”

“No.” But he was still amused. “I think you need to do something else with your mouth, little Yvain.” 

She knew that had to be coming. She was surprised how much she now wanted to do something she had only recently dreaded. “You mean, pleasure you? My Seigneur?”



Sinful Sunday: Waiting, holding that cane

Arethusa generally got the cane for one of three reasons: 

(1). Late handing in schoolwork;

(2). Skipping medical appointments;

(3). Sex.

Sometimes they overlapped a bit. Sex was always there. But this time it was because she’d broken a favourite mug of mine, hidden the pieces and lied to me about it. Arethusa didn’t have a bratty bone in her body, I’d have thought, and that was very uncharacteristic misbehaviour for her. 

But it wasn’t going to happen again.

There were two canes that she knew well. One was named “Sting”. The heavier one, that she’s holding between her buttocks, is “Striper”. A long session with Striper tends to be hot, and it always ends in yowling, grunty sex, but it’s also corrective.

When the punishment is going to be painful and dramatic, there should always be a period of waiting and thinking first.


Wicked Wednesday: Dear Diary

[Just taking a break from the Droit de Seigneur saga. Yvain will be back next week…) 

Somewhere a book is marked, “Fuck off this is my diary”

12 March

Last night I was in bed with Angela. I knew we were coming apart. I love her, passionately, with every cell of my body and impulse of my mind. So I was coming apart too. Lying beside the woman I love, feeling lonely and afraid. I said I was afraid. I shouldn’t have.

She’s getting more and more drawn into Utrantia. I can’t understand why. We used to laugh together about homeopaths, and about the time the waif down the road crashed into our bedroom because there were aliens chasing her. There was something about Ley lines, too. She only smoked dope, but this must have been good.

Actually, I don’t think Angela laughed as much as me, on that one. It was obvious that I thought our stoned waif seeking sanctuary was charmingly eccentric and maybe I was so tolerant because I fancied her. Moving along …

Angela’s an intelligent woman. And, until recently she was rational and sceptical. I couldn’t understand how she could fall for bullshit like Utrantia. Last night I said so, and set out my case: ten reasons why Utrantia is bullshit. 

Yes, Diary, you think that was a desperate and stupid thing to do, and you’re right. It only cast me even more firmly in the role of enemy. Outsider. Someone in the way.


16 March

Angela didn’t come home last night. I cried. I listened to sad music. This didn’t help. Eventually I got out of bed, got dressed, and went two doors down to see the marijuana girl: Lissa. She answered the door in her underpants and a t-shirt. She was delighted to see me and she invited me in.

So we had a cup of tea, and I talked about how I was losing Angela. She said, “Right.” She got up and took a bottle of Amaretto. It’s purple, and very strong for a girl’s drink. But she paused at the mantlepiece, knowing that I’d be watching her wiggle. She went up on tiptoe, which she didn’t actually need to do. But the effect on her arse and thighs was all it should be.

I was being subjected to Feminine Wiles. She brought back the bottle and no glasses, so we drank from the neck. And of course we fucked, her bending over the table, me pumping blissfully away behind her, while she made delighted gurgling noises.  

That’s the first time I’ve ever been unfaithful to Angela. That’s bitter-sweet, but if I stayed home it would only have been bitter. 

Then we went to her bed.


17 March

In the morning I went home. Angela was there, putting make-up on. She doesn’t wear make-up.

I’d had a good night, and Lissa had treated me lovingly and with affection, and the sex was good and nearly unending. We had about three hours’ sleep. But seeing Angela there, composed, made up because someone else liked her to wear make-up, it still hurt my heart.

She asked me where I’d been. I said I’d missed her, and gone to talk to Michael, a friend of mine. A friend who would always say I’ve been with him, if someone asked.

She said she was inviting a Utrantia man for dinner, tomorrow. “Don’t worry; I’ll cook.”

So I said I’d invite Lissa, the alien-seer from down the road.

So there!

Yeah, what am I, four?

This is a set-up for disaster.


20 March 

That was unexpected, in so many ways. The Utrantia guy didn’t show up. I suppose he thought of me as a jealous husband. Which I sort of am, except for the husband part, but I’m civilised and wasn’t going to throw a scene or my fists. 

Anyway, it was dinner for three. Angela started noticing that Lissa and I were doing most of the talking, and talking to each other and not much to her. She got up, enraged, and climbed into her car and drove off. 

So Lissa and I went to bed. My bed. My and Angela’s bed, which had never had a body in it except for hers and mine. 

I was doing Lissa with my face sweetly held in her thighs while I licked her. My nose was actually inside her. Her thighs against my ears meant I didn’t hear Angela return, until she slammed the door. Then I looked up.








She’d slammed the door with her inside. She said, “That’s my bed. And that bloody cock, Lissa, that’s mine too.”

She took her clothes off. Not in a seductive way. It was angry stripping. Then she walked over and kissed Lissa’s mouth. It started angry, and got passionate. So I smacked her arse, since it was in reach and she’d always liked that.

She turned at me, still angry. “Why don’t you fuck the girl? You can fuck her, I won’t mind. If you do me with your face at the same time.”

So that was what happened. It was a weird night, emotionally, Lissa and I being very tender with each other and with Angela, and Angela having angry sex with both of us.

So that was complicated. And probably the hottest night of my life, so far.


23 March

Angela’s moving out. Lissa is happy to move in, and I guess she will, soon. So that’s a strange transition. I didn’t plan it, or expect it. All we really know is that we like each other, and work, sexually. But Lissa is nice to me. Angela hasn’t been for ages. Nice is better.

Last night I made dinner for the three of us. Ratatouille. Angela knows that that’s my seduction dish, and that I wasn’t aiming it at her. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen.

At the table Angela said, “I’ve got people to help me pack up and move, tomorrow. To Dean’s place. He’s a Utrantia leader. He’s really wise, you smug prick.”

I said, “OK.” I’d learned, too late, not to argue.

“So tonight’s the last night I’m ever going to fuck you. Or Lissa, if that’s OK with you?”

Lissa said, “Sure. Why not? You’re very fuckable.”

Angela said, “So we’re fucking goodbye. I guess you two aren’t, but I am. So we may as well make it good.”

Diary, I could tell you lots of things about our bodies and what we did and how we combined and pushed.

But it was the saddest, and happiest, night of my life. And I’m not going to talk about it, not even to you.

Sinful Sunday: Sunday, Sunday

There haven’t been many photos of your humble narrator, of a Sinful Sunday.

But I dunno, this Sunday I was feeling relaxed and happy and not very sinful at all. So here I am, a rare selfie, taking sensual pleasure. 

One thing I’ll say for this image: I’m very clean.

Droit de Seigneur 7

Yvain had looked up at the Seigneur, lying on her back, thighs parted as wide as she could for him, watching him raise the riding crop, wondering if he meant to lash her cunt or her thighs. She’d said, “Please,” and the word still echoed in her mind. 

She knew she hadn’t been crying out for mercy. She’d wanted him to know that she needed his mark, no, his marks, on her thighs, so that when she wrapped them round his body, as she knew she would soon, she could hold him tight and feel that pain and his ownership even as he took her.

Or she meant, she wanted him to know that she was his, and that it felt right to be his, even as he hurt her, and had her casually punished by others, sometimes without even bothering to watch. 

He smiled down at her. “You weren’t told you can speak, little Yvain. You keep demanding more punishment, don’t you?”

Yvain was wide-eyed. That couldn’t be true, and yet it was. “I’m sorry, my Seigneur.” 

“That wasn’t an answer, Yvain.” He brought the crop down, on her inner left thigh, on soft, plump flesh close to her opened cunt. Suddenly, without build-up, there was a line of hot pain across that thigh, and the crack of the leather on her soft skin.

Yvan wailed, lost. “Yes! I meant yes, my Seigneur! I’m sorry.” 

“You have permission to speak, now. I don’t want to have to punish you for every sound you make. In the meantime, keep your thighs well spread, Yvain. Don’t tense your muscles.” The Seigneur raised the crop again. It hovered, ready to strike. He waited, till she dared to look him in the eyes. Then he smiled at her and struck again. The crop wrote a fresh hot weal of pain on her right inner thigh. 

Yvain gasped and writhed. She felt the urge to thank him. It seemed absurd and yet it was overpowering. “Thank you, my Seigneur.”

He laughed, mouth closed, inside her throat. “You have four more strokes, little one. Two for your squealing, out in the corridor, when you were giving Karl his exercise and you were told to remain silent. And we have to deal with the ‘please’. I like the sentiment, but you disobeyed me when you spoke.”

Yvain felt, again, her body yearning. She nodded, but said nothing.

“I’m going to give you two strokes for each. Is that fair?”

“Yes, my Seigneur. Of course it is. I hate disobeying you. I want to show you – ” But she broke off. She didn’t have the words. 

“Good. You know you are aroused, Yvain. You know that if you touched your cunt now, you would come. Is this true?”

“Yes, my Seigneur. I’m very close.” 

“The strokes hurt less when you’re aroused. I think you’ve noticed that.”

“Yes, my Seigneur. It’s true.”

“I’m going to make you come, soon, little one.”

Yvain nodded. That was true, too.

“Would you prefer to have your four strokes now, or after you’ve come?”

“Now, please! I mean, my Seigneur!”

He smiled, and applied the four strokes, unhurried, letting her absorb each one, and waiting till she met his eyes before delivering the next. At the end Yvain, with six reddish black raised weals burning on her inner thighs, wanted to scream, though not with pain.

The Seigneur knelt then. “It’s time you gave me your first orgasm, little Yvain.” He leaned forward till his head was between her burningly sensitive thighs. He lowered his face till she felt his tongue touch the sleek wetness off her cunt.

No man, or woman had done that before. It felt like a rush of pleasure, like th sweetest food she had ever eaten. Her thighs closed a little, so she could feel her welts against his face. His tongue moved, licking upwards. She moaned. Then, this time knowing what she meant, she said, “Please.”